


Lollirot

by The_Red_Rabbit



Category: Hannibal (TV), Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory (1971)
Genre: based on a tumblr post i saw that made me crack up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:40:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 14,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25826047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Red_Rabbit/pseuds/The_Red_Rabbit
Summary: Willy Wonka is a humble man with a dream of making candy for all the children of the world. When he starts running out of ideas for new confections, he seeks help for his depression. His doctor, Hannibal Lecter, is a strangely charming man with unorthodox ideas for how a factory should be run. Before long, Will starts to experience paranoid delusions about his competitors and loses his grip on reality as he sinks deeper into self-imposed isolation with nobody but his doctor to guide him.A prequel to the show Hannibal.
Relationships: Hannibal Lecter/Willy Wonka, am i joking? we'll see
Comments: 14
Kudos: 10





	1. Hors D'oeuvres

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a Tumblr post that said 
> 
> "You STOLE fizzy lifting drinks!"  
> "And if you are wrong, Will?"
> 
> This is meant to be a parody of sorts, I suppose? I watched Hannibal when it was on the air, but stopped mid-way through season 2. I recently finished the show since it's now on Netflix. I also rewatched the original Willy Wonka movie (that I have on DVD) a few days ago. Maybe this is my way of finally coping with the devastating death of Gene Wilder? He would NOT have approved...or would he? Time won't tell for some reason.

It still surprises the locals when tourists visit the town to look up at the Wonka Factory from this side of the gate.

"What's the point of it?" they ask themselves. "Nobody ever goes in and nobody ever comes out."

It's spoken about in whispers that are as reverent as they are resentful. The most popular joke in town is that even talking about the Wonka Factory will leave a local with a taste in their mouth that is as bitter as dark chocolate. It's funny to them, because Wonka doesn't produce dark chocolate.

It's hard to believe now, but the town once thrived. The children have always grown up in this world where the streets and walkways are cracked, most of the shop windows shuttered, and the most exciting news they had to look forward to was the rumor that a Walmart might soon open in midtown. Those old enough to remember, however, will tell you stories of what the town was like when it was still alive, and tell you in no uncertain terms that a Walmart will destroy what's left of the economy of this town. They know better than to trust any promise of jobs. Just look what happened with the Wonka Factory.

Some years prior, in the post-war days, the town wasn't rich, but it got by. The square was hopping with local businesses who peddled their wares to a contented public. But then the Wonka factory opened.

Mr Wonka promised to create jobs for their little town, and it became a major draw in the area. The economy boomed, people had stability to invest everything in the Candy Economy. But then one day, Mr Wonka announced that he'd be laying off his entire workforce. It was unclear why. He'd always been an eccentric, but hadn't seemed like an unreasonable or cruel man. Those who knew best said that he'd become more paranoid and unhinged in the months leading up to the layoff, but nobody was quite sure what had prompted this change.

There was a lot of speculation that the plant would close, taking with it not just the jobs of the town, but also the happiness of the children who depended on the sweet treats. But it didn't close. Production kept up just as usual - productivity even seemed to increase! This didn't make sense. He'd laid off his entire workforce and there was no way that production orders could be filled at this rate by one lone man. Did he bring in outside contractors? Perhaps migrant workers that would work for a reduced cost? 

Mr Wonka never responded to media inquiries and was never seen again outside of his factory. Those journalists who tried to stake out his perimeter in hopes of catching sight of him or getting a comment from his staff always came up empty. There was never anyone to talk to. Eventually even the journalists gave up and went home. 

Except one.

C.W. Scattergood was known in journalistic circles for being tenacious and persistent. It often got her into trouble. She had a tendency to push boundaries, which meant no respectable publication would ever keep her on retainer. But if she were to, say, get a scoop as a freelance then, well, the highest bidding publication could hardly say no, could they?

She tied her bronze hair away from her face and hid it underneath a black cap as she scaled the wrought-iron bars that kept the factory cut off from the outside world. It wrapped around the perimeter of the property completely and was so high that not even the hungriest reporters had dared try to climb it. But C.W. was no ordinary reporter. She scaled it with minimal difficulty and dropped to the ground. She paused upon landing, half expecting sensors to go off. They didn't. She took that as a good sign and straightened up.

 _Don't get cocky, Scattergood,_ she warned herself. _Still reels to go before we sleep._

She cautiously made her way to the main building and examined the door. The locking mechanism didn't look too tricky. 

_I really expected more of a challenge,_ she thought as she got to work picking the locks.

 _Don't get cocky, Scattergood,_ she reminded herself. _Minimal perimeter security usually means they're very confident about their internal security. And they usually have good reason to be._

She opened the door a crack and peered inside. Everything was dark and the entryway appeared to be empty. She couldn't be sure if it was a good sign or an ominous one, but it was certainly an intriguing one.

She fit through the small crack in the door easily and shut the door carefully behind her. This would be the exciting bit. She flattened herself against the wall and surveyed her surroundings. 

Then she was grabbed roughly from behind.

Normally she was too professional to scream, but this one time she made an exception. 

"Jesus _fucking_ goddamn _Christ_!"

She roughly pulled away and turned to face her assailant to find tiny golden human-like hands protruding from the wall, still holding on to pieces of dark fabric they'd ripped from her clothes. She watched as they retracted into the wall with their prizes.

"What the fuck?" she whispered. "What in the actual goddamn _fuck?"_

She hastily reached for her camera and snapped pictures.

Her heart was pounding, but she knew she had to move. She'd foolishly screamed like a child, which was sure to attract attention. Whatever security measure those hands had been wasn't her top priority if full bodies started coming after her.

She could hear footsteps approaching so she ran for the first door she saw and closed it behind her. She immediately realized her mistake. It seemed to be a dead end. She'd just walked into a trap!

 _That's stupid,_ she assured herself. _There's no need for traps in a candy factory._

She moved to the end of the room and banged on the walls, trying to find the hidden exit. She found nothing.

 _Might as well give myself up at this point,_ she thought. _Since there's really no way out._

She took a deep breath and decided to exit through the door she'd come in. What she saw when she opened the door made her jaw drop.

This was a completely different room than the one she'd just left! 

She turned around to check and saw confirmation that there was, in fact, still a dead end at the other side of the room yet she'd come out the same door into a completely different part of the factory. What sort of illusion was this? Did the room also spin? 

She didn't have time to find out.

She hurriedly dashed toward a door on the other side of the room.

But this hallway had some trickery involved as well. It seemed to get smaller as she went along! She had to slow down and crouch to avoid hitting her head and getting stuck. When she reached the door, it was tiny. She swore under her breath.

"What kind of Alice in Wonderland shit is this?" she whispered. Still, she figured she could probably squeeze through without shedding a single tear. She snapped a few pictures for proof then pulled the knob. 

It wouldn't budge. 

There had to be some trick to it. Some hidden locking mechanism. She felt around on it til she found a panel that was slightly loose. It swung down to reveal a small keyboard. At first she was confused. What purpose could this serve? A tiny keyboard at the end of an optical illusion room? Was this a taunt? Saying 'ha ha, you had your fun, but it's all for naught'? 

_End of the road,_ she thought. _Obviously you can't play this thing without making a sound and attracting attention, and anyway a real door would have keys._

_Wait a second..._

_KEYS!_

_A keyboard has keys!_

_What if...and this is nuts...it's a combination lock?_

She hesitated, because testing this theory would give her away for sure. And besides, what would she play? There were infinite combinations, and she wasn't a very good pianist. She's taken years of lessons but had never practiced enough to do more than chopsticks.

She tried chopsticks.

Nothing.

She swore and glanced behind her. She wasn't being pursued yet. She tried to think of something else to play. She tried something else.

"Ode to Joy," said a soft voice from behind her. She couldn't identify the accent. Somewhere on the European continent, perhaps? "A fine piece of classical music. But I'm afraid Beethoven isn't the key. You'll have to look to his contemporaries if your goal is to get through that door."

She jumped because she hadn't heard anyone come in and accidentally hit her head of the low ceiling. "That's really the best I've got," she said. "I'm out of practice. So if it's Rachmaninoff you're hoping for, it's not gonna happen."

She could almost hear him smile. "Not Rachmaninoff, no. The man who created this lock is more partial to Mozart." A short pause. "I've noticed your back is still turned. The natural human instinct in these cases is to want to keep eyes on the potential danger. Will you not give in to primal instinct and turn to face me?"

"Depends," she said. "If you're a source, you might disappear. Leaks tend to prefer anonymity."

The voice was tinged with amusement. "You're assuming I'm a source?" 

"Not assuming. Hoping."

"I haven't made up my mind. Perhaps I'll hasten my decision if you turn to look at me."

She was curious, she had to admit that much. She also had to admit that she wasn't keen on keeping her back turned. So she did as instructed.

The man wasn't what she'd expected. He stood poised and tall a few feet away where he didn't have to crouch to look at her. He wasn't what she'd call a particularly conventionally attractive man, but there was a certain magnetism about his strange eyes set in a face that was reminiscent of an ancient leather-bound book. But this book wasn't open for just anyone to peruse at leisure - she got the impression that his secrets were hidden deep within the binding.

He smiled, satisfied by her compliance. "That's better, is it not?"

"Not really," she said. "I've still got to crouch. What's the deal with this room anyway?" Something about his gaze made her feel oddly exposed, like a child caught out of bed after dark. She took advantage of the moment to take a picture of him. He didn't even blink. "Well? You got something for me or should I just run for it?"

"You betray your youth with the simple supposition that those two scenarios are mutually exclusive." He moved toward her and she flinched slightly. He stopped and smiled. "I am simply unlocking the door. There is nothing to fear in this room."

"Why would you do that?" she demanded. "Open the door? Who are you?"

"All in good time," he replied. "You have yet to see anything of real importance. It would be a shame to let you leave without even a taste of what you came for."

He crouched down to reach around her and she kept her eyes firmly fixed to him as he typed in the musical key to the door. 

"You're not Wonka," she said.

"No, I am not," he replied. "But you are far too young to know that for certain." He pushed open the door. "Feel free to take all the photographs you would like. We will talk at the conclusion of the tour."

...

The tour wasn't comprehensive and didn't last long. They didn't even make it out of the Chocolate Room. She was immediately distracted not just by the incredible confectionery feats Wonka had achieved but by the obvious health code violations inherent in making an edible room. 

She was just gearing up to take a picture of the chocolate waterfall when a little orange man came out of it. "Christ, who the hell is that?"

"That is an Oompa Loompa," he said.

"Hmpf," she said. "I'm sure it is. So that's where his labor comes from after he sacked the whole town? I suppose they live here since they never leave?"

His eyes sparkled as he answered. "Yes."

"And they get paid?"

"They receive full room and board."

She nodded. "So Wonka replaced his work force with slave labor. That explains _so_ much. Capitalists."

"Indeed," the stranger said.

She stopped and crossed her arms. "Why are you showing me all this? I could get you shut down."

"Because it will not matter soon," he said. "Wonka is making a big announcement tomorrow. You happen to be a day early."

Her eyes widened. "So I get the inside scoop?"

"Yes," he smiled. "The scoop. If you can be patient."

She sat down on a bench. "Well tell me then. And leave nothing out. I don't do puff pieces."

He sat down across from her on a stone plaque. "I'd like to know a bit about you first. I've seen you standing outside the gates, even when others had given up. You climbed the fence with such ease."

"I did a piece on mountain climbing a few years ago," she said dismissively. "And soon after did a piece of parkour. Long story short, I learned to do both. That wasn't such a challenge."

He smiled. "Tenacious, aren't you? I admire that quality. What's your name?"

"C.W. Scattergood."

"C.W. What do those initials stand for?"

She debated whether or not it was his business. "I go by C.W. People don't take you seriously in this business if your name is too girly."

"And you wish for me to take you seriously," he said. "Fair enough."

"And you?" she pressed. "Who are you then?"

"My name is Hannibal Lecter."

She had to wonder if that was even his real name, but thought it better not to press. Too much. "And you're a candy maker, Mr Lecter? Or simply a really bad head of security?"

He smiled again. She really did find that smile unsettling. It was like a spider that knew it had you trapped in its web. "Neither. I'm a psychiatrist."

She sized him up. "And how did you come to be here, Mr Lecter?"

"Are you looking for the press release or the real scoop?"

"The real scoop, Mr Lecter."

"Then I suppose we have to start at the beginning, though that's rarely simple and always subjective. Why don't you start with your most pressing concerns? What brought you here tonight?"

"Well," she said. "We were never really given answers, were we? Why sack all the staff? Why bring in slave labor? I'd be tempted to say it's just capitalist greed, but they said he was acting strangely in the months before the shut down."

"Yes," he said. "That _is_ a fitting beginning."


	2. Amuse-Bouche

All major events begin with a meeting.

Hannibal Lecter had just opened a new psychiatric practice in the neighboring metropolitan area, but hadn't received many calls. The locals were very suspicious of psychiatry - they felt it was only for the very mad. So Hannibal had been quite surprised to receive an appointment.

The client hadn't wanted to reveal his name, which intrigued Hannibal immediately. He claimed to be a famous businessman and he was concerned about his image if the many people depending on him found out he needed outside help. Hannibal agreed to a brief term of anonymity. It was unconventional, but he ran an unconventional practice. Or at least he planned to.

Besides, this fellow was rich. He could say his name was Ronald McDonald and Hannibal would go along with it because this man could bankroll him for a year.

Hannibal's first impression of him was that he was pale. Spent a lot of time indoors by the looks of things. He wore a modest tweed coat and a black bow tie, and a slight sugary smell wafted off of him.

"Welcome," Hannibal said after shaking his hand and taking a seat. "Now I do respect your need for privacy, but this process will be easier if we can establish rapport. Give me something I can call you. It doesn't have to be your real name."

The man hesitated, but not long enough. "Will," he said. He immediately kicked himself. That was basically the same name. It would be too easy to link. But he couldn't find a way around it. "You can call me Will."

"Will," Hannibal said. He pretended not to notice the internal conflict he'd noticed in "Will"'s eyes. "Maybe you'd like to tell me a bit about yourself?"

"I'm a local businessman," he said. "I started out with a small store and now I run my own factory."

"Making what, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Will" hesitated. "Pastries."

Hannibal nodded. "And what drew you to pastry making, Will?"

"We didn't have a lot of them growing up," he admitted. "I never knew my parents, and nuns at the orphanage were very strict about sweets. It was basically contraband."

"So you rebelled against the church by learning how to make pastries?"

"I suppose you could say that."

Hannibal made a mental note of this. "And what brought you here today, Will?"

"I haven't been able to come up with a new idea in months," he admitted. "I try, but I've hit a mental block."

"Do you need a new idea? Are the old ideas not selling?"

"They're selling better than ever. But I have competitors. I can't afford to fall behind the curve. I have to always be innovating or sales will drop. I'll be obsolete."

Hannibal jotted down _depression_ on his notepad.

"What do you think is causing this stagnation?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. I'm not inspired. I always used to be inspired. It came so easily! But lately I'm just boring. Maybe I'm getting old. And the longer I think about how far behind I am, the worse I feel about it. It gets to the point where I can't do anything at all because all my ideas are stupid and I'm afraid I'll let everyone down."

Hannibal jotted down _anxiety_ on his notepad.

"Well the good news is that inspiration isn't a finite resource," Hannibal said. "It can always be regained. But you have to be willing to do the work to discover the location of your mental block. Would you be willing to do this work?"

"I'll do anything, Mr Lecter," Will said.

"Please," he said. "Call me Hannibal."


	3. Soup

"Can I offer you something to drink?" 

"No thank you, Doctor Lecter."

"Some water? Tea? Coffee? Something stronger?"

"Would you have something stronger? Isn't that a little unconventional, Doctor Lecter?"

"I have a feeling that we're both very unconventional people, don't you Will?"

"I suppose there's a bit of truth to that," said Will. "I certainly didn't get to where I am by thinking inside the box."

"The confectionery trade would require a certain amount of creativity," Hannibal acknowledged. "I don't pretend to have as much experience in the area. My culinary expertise lies with more savory ingredients."

"You cook, Doctor Lecter?"

He smiled. "Quite often. I enjoy it. I find it offers some therapeutic value. There is something so satisfying about creating something with your hands that can bring joy or pleasure to others. I enjoy the process of creating."

"I remember when it used to be like that for me," said Will. "I miss feeling like I was actually accomplishing something. The ideas used to come so naturally to me."

"When did you first begin?" Hannibal asked. "Where was that moment when you realized that you wanted to create confections?" He was very carefully not saying pastries. He knew that was a lie, but he wasn't going to outright say it.

Will thought about it. "I've been doing it for a long time. I told you I grew up in an orphanage? Sometimes the nuns would give us pocket change to go out into town and get things. I'd save up the excess. At first I'd use it to buy contraband candy, but when I was 11 I figured out that you could melt down chocolate and put it into molds and freeze it. I always did this in dead of night after the nuns were asleep. I'd sneak back and put the molds in the very back of the freezer where they wouldn't look. Then the next night I'd come back and get my shapes. Then I'd go onto the street and resell them for change. 25 cents each. After I figured that out, I wouldn't have to save up nun money anymore. I could just use whatever I made to buy more supplies. I even branched out and learned how to mix caramel in."

"It must've been a very lucrative business model for someone so young," said Hannibal. "When did it become a career aspiration?"

"Pretty much the moment I began seriously tinkering with the recipe," he admitted. "At some point I thought I should just make my own chocolate, and it was downhill from there. Now I've got every kind of candy you can think of..." He realized his mistake. "In addition to the pastries, I mean."

"Right," Hannibal said, with just a touch of amusement. "You never answered my question, Will? Did you care for something stronger?"

"No, I don't drink," he said. "One of the few things I agree with the nuns about. I think it would just dull my creativity."

"Fair enough," said Hannibal. 


	4. Appetizer

It is grossly unethical for a doctor to acknowledge a patient in public without the patient initiating the contact, Hannibal knew this much. Ethics were a subject that he was interested in, though his personal opinions about it tended to fluctuate. He studied philosophy at length and couldn't quite get enough of simple human issues of morality. 

He hadn't been stalking Will, not yet. He'd considered whether he ought to, but thought it was still a bit early in his treatment to be able to tell if he was deserving of the extra attention. He had to admit he was intrigued by this man. He obviously made some sort of sweets, but chose to lie about which kinds he made. He was very secretive about his identity, though freely admitted to intimate details of his religious upbringing. This Will was more of an agnostic than an outright atheist - the fear of God is very hard to shake when that's the only structure you've ever known. Hannibal had to wonder what his sin was. Nobody could have such deep mood disorders without believing themselves guilty of some fundamental sin. 

Hannibal allowed his eyes to wander over his patient's thin frame. This, too, was not ethical, but Hannibal wasn't just allowing himself to admit a certain aesthetic attraction to the man. No, he needed to see whether this specimen had enough meat on its bones to make a meal of. Hannibal determined from this cursory examination that Will had neither the muscle nor the fat content to be useful in this state. 

He knew he couldn't initiate contact here in this bookstore, but he also didn't want to give up the chase just yet. What a chance encounter that they'd both be looking in the philosophy section! Hannibal chose to do the passive thing.

...

"So you're an anglerfish."

Hannibal was startled from his recollections by this odd interruption. He couldn't help but immediately think that the interruption was rude, but wondered if it was rude contextually. After all, the interruption came from a reporter. They did have to clarify.

"I beg your pardon," Hannibal said politely.

"An anglerfish," C.W. repeated. "I watched a documentary on them the other day. This 'passive' tactic you describe of waiting for Will to notice you and initiate contact sounds an awful lot like an anglerfish lure. They have a sort of glowing organ that dangles off their head and attracts prey."

"And mates," he said.

"Sorry?"

"Anglerfish also use the lure to attract mates."

She tilted her head and studied him closely. "So which was Will?"

He smiled. "In the animal kingdom, there's not always a difference. Some creatures devour their mates."

"Mostly insects, though," said C.W. 

"And arachnids," he conceded.

"So which is it?" she asked again. "Did you dangle a lure or did you spin him a web?"

His expression was unreadable as he took a moment to consider his answer. "Webs are most effective at ensnaring simple creatures. Cleverer creatures require a more tantalizing lure, otherwise they would simply swim the other way. Clever creatures think themselves immortal, yet can't resist even the most obvious bait."

C.W. tried very hard to disguise the chill that raced over her. Hannibal had given no indication that he was aggressive, but in her experience it was the quiet and refined ones that you had to watch out for. "Some creatures might choose to swim closer just to get a look," she said. "It's a tactic. Scope out the enemy and all that. Then you can find its weakness and turn it against itself. Some prey animals might be exactly where they want to be."

This felt like a dangerous statement, and she practically held her breath waiting for the reply. 

He folded his hands in his lap and looked at her rather like she imagined a spider or an anglerfish might look at its prey. "Tell me, C.W, are you where you want to be?"

Her blood felt like ice, but she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of showing fear visibly. She could still get something out of this. "For the moment. After all, one animal's predator is another one's prey, right?"

He smiled. "Quite right. I once sampled anglerfish in a restaurant in Kyoto. It was a bit like lobster. I tend to have more refined tastes. The finest cuisine is that which is rare and difficult to come across."

"And Will was one of those rare specimens you have a craving for?"

"Exceedingly," Hannibal admitted. "He possesses the most unusual mind..."


	5. Salad

Hannibal had indeed used a tactic similar to that of an anglerfish. He placed himself directly in Will's line of sight at the opposite side of the philosophy section.

Then he waited.

"Dr. Lecter?"

Hannibal pretended to be shocked as he looked up to see his patient had spotted him. "Hello, Will," he said. "Forgive me, I did not see you standing there."

"What are the chances?" Will asked. "Both of us in the philosophy section!"

"I've always been fascinated by philosophy and ethics," Hannibal admitted. "I find myself often searching for answers in forgotten books. What brings you here?"

"Searching for answers is a good way to put it," Will said. "I guess you could say I've always longed to replace one theology with another."

"Theology has its place. In modern times, that place is usually as a function of social control. That does not mean we cannot find immeasurable truth and wisdom in each philosophy."

Will nodded. "Truer words have never been spoken."

"So what is it that you're reading?"

"Nothing right now," he admitted. "I'm working my way slowly through Kant."

This made perfect sense within Hannibal's mind, though he was determined not to show it. "Yes, the categorical imperative. You're searching for very black and white perspectives on morality."

"Is that a bad thing?"

"Not necessarily. We'd all like for there to be easy answers - rules that hold true in every circumstance. But the world isn't like that. It's infinitely more complex. You cannot experience a world in black and white when it mostly exists in shades of gray."

"And you, Dr. Lecter?" Will asked. "What is it that you're reading?"

"I've recently been reading some works of David Hume. I'm fascinated by the idea that we cannot truly perceive ourselves as we are."

"We're only a 'bundle of sensations'," Will said. "Yes, I'm familiar with his work."

"I'd like to believe a true conception of the self is possible," he said. "True enlightenment and knowing of oneself with no bias should be attainable. But I've lately stepped away from Hume's work. I was hoping to pick up some works by Saint Thomas Aquinas."

"I'm very familiar with him," Will said. "Catholic upbringing."

Hannibal was finding Will more intriguing by the moment. He weighed his options. "I've been thinking of starting a philosophical book club," he lied. "A place where great minds can debate great texts. Would you be interested in joining?"

"I don't know, Dr. Lecter," Will said. "I'm not really the most social person."

"That's perfectly alright. We can start slow. Maybe you should come over for dinner some night and we can discuss these principles. We can talk about having a larger gathering some other time when you're more comfortable around company."

Will wasn't sure how to respond to this. The idea did seem tantalizing. In his line of work, he was often starved for the good intellectual company of equals. But he had to wonder what exactly Hannibal's motivation was. This couldn't be a usual proposition for a doctor to make to his patient, and Will wondered about not just the optics of the situation, but the morality.

"You're not asking me on a...."

He couldn't bring himself to say the word 'date'. It was too scandalous and preposterous. And somewhere deep down in his mind where he dared not venture, intriguing.

Hannibal smiled. "It is whatever you're most comfortable with, Will. Shall we say Friday night?"

Will thought about it and nodded. "It's a..." There's that word again. "Dinner."


	6. Fish

Hannibal Lecter had tangled the bait, and he'd very nearly caught himself a fish.

Willy Wonka thought about the proposition constantly. It haunted him through every waking moment. 

_"It's a...dinner."_

Why did that feel like such an inadequate response? It was just an accurate description of what to expect from such an invitation. But still the comment embarrassed him.

He wasn't going. That much was certain. He had far too much work. How would a dinner be conducive to coming up with the newest candy to flood the markets? It would just be a distraction. He didn't need a distraction.

But he looked around the factory floor and realized that he had no intellectual equal there. Nobody with which to discuss life's most delicate questions.

And he had to admit, he could use a hot meal.

He agonized over this dilemma every day leading up to Friday, and then when the day arrived he paced constantly as he battled himself on whether to accept. Hannibal had insisted that he need not RSVP. He could just show up. The business card on which he'd scrawled his home address felt like it was burning a hole in his pocket. Because of course he carried it with him at all times. Not going to let something like that out of his sight. 

The factory emptied at 5 o clock sharp every day. He watched as his workers took their leave of him for the weekend.

"Big weekend plans everybody?" he asked.

"Yeah," said Bob, the supervising floor manager. "Gotta head home for some quality time with the wife and kids."

"Kids," Wonka repeated. 

"Yeah," Bob said. "You got any, Mr Wonka?"

"No," he admitted. "Never saw myself having any. Filthy little creatures, aren't they?"

Bob didn't know quite what to say to this. "They're only as filthy as the people who raise them, wouldn't you say?"

Wonka nodded. "Quite right," he said. "An excellent point. We are only the products of parenting, after all."

"Well I'm going out with Thomas after work tonight," said Stacy, one of the assembly line workers. "You know what? I think he's gonna finally propose tonight!"

"That's amazing, Stacy!" Bob said. "Congratulations!"

Wonka said nothing, but he didn't have to. He was never really on the inside of these types of conversations. He never really got to know any of these people. He was surrounded by people who completely depended on him but didn't know him at all. He suddenly felt very lonely.

And that business card was burning a hole in his pocket.

...

Hannibal's house in the country was a beautiful testament to Victorian architecture. 

"Do you have family, Doctor Lecter?" Wonka asked, gazing at the stunning chandelier.

"I do not," Hannibal admitted. "Why do you ask?"

"Big house for someone without family," he pointed out.

Hannibal smile. "A house isn't just a home. It's a wonderful venue for entertaining guests. I choose accommodations based on the aesthetic value that can be achieved when entertaining."

"I suppose that's fair," said Wonka.

Hannibal gestured toward the splendid dining room. "Please, after you."

Wonka entered the room and was impressed by the sheer amount of finery piled into one room. He took note of the music Hannibal had chosen.

"Chopin?"

Hannibal nodded. "You have an excellent ear, Will."

 _I'd quite like to eat it,_ he added to himself. But nibbles would have to wait.

"I'm more of a Mozart man myself," Will said, taking a seat. "But Chopin was undoubtedly a fine composer."

Hannibal took a seat directly across from him. "We'll only be doing a three course dinner tonight," he said. 

"Why do you say that like an apology?" he asked. 

"Traditional full-course meals are twelve courses."

"Are they? I've only heard of the three course. And normally I'm satisfied with the one. You were lucky to have one when you lived in an orphanage."

The waiter Hannibal had hired for the night came out at that moment and began serving.

"You even have your own servants?" Wonka said incredulously.

"From time to time," he admitted. "I hire them when I entertain. But I assure you, I made everything myself. We're starting with a salad course. Do you not delegate work in your line of work, Will?"

"I suppose I do," he admitted. "Running a factory means most of the day-to-day work isn't actually done by me anymore."

"But the idea is still yours," Hannibal pushed. "It remains yours even after others have stepped in to create your vision."

"That's true."

Hannibal gestured to the food. "Please."

They both began eating.

"I've never been much for salad," Wonka admitted after a moment. "But this is really good."

"Do you like it?" Hannibal asked. "It's my twist on a Mediterranean salad with spicy chicken on top."

He'd considered using other meat and passing it for chicken, but that hadn't worked out. He preferred to hunt, but he was still fairly new to it. He'd lost his nerve when he'd gone sniffing around for some more challenging meat. He vowed next time to change that.

"It's very good, thanks," said Wonka.

"I'd like to circle back around to what you said before," Hannibal said. "About the orphanage."

"I thought this wasn't going to be therapy tonight, Doctor Lecter."

"I keep telling you to call me Hannibal. And it's not therapy. It's simply conversation. I'm...curious about you."

Wonka's pulse quickened. "Curious how?"

"Just curious," he said simply.

He wasn't sure what to say so he cleared his throat. "What was your question?"

"Were you often going without food in the orphanage?"

"That's hardly cheerful dinner conversation."

"Then we don't have to talk about it now-"

"No, no, it's alright. To answer your question, yes. The nuns were severe about punishment. Any perceived sin was cause for depriving us."

"You must've had a very unhappy childhood."

He nodded. "It's funny, because I was just thinking about it today. My employee was talking about kids and I realized I still don't have the faintest idea of how they work. I never got along with kids when I was one. Everything felt like a competition. Sister Margaret used to say 'life's a race and only some of you will win'."

"She sounds like a cheerful woman," Hannibal said in an attempt at levity.

Wonka nodded. "She always talked like we were the lucky ones. We got to live aware of God's bounty. Those children on the outside didn't know anything of it. They were out there living lives of gluttony and sloth and idleness and we were the lucky ones. They'd never make it into the kingdom of heaven because their parents never instilled the fear of God in them."

"It sounds like you were never allowed to be a child even when you were one. Of course you'd never be able to understand children now. You're so far detached from them. But there are things we can learn from children."

"Like what?"

"Children are a wealth of untapped potential. Their creativity, when not squashed, knows no bounds. Perhaps we need to find a way to harness child-like creativity in order to get you past this creative block. Most creative block stems, after all, from the anxieties and pressures of adulthood. As children, we could simply create recklessly. It was only as we got older that we realized people were watching."

...

Hannibal held his door open to let Wonka pass in front of him. The night air felt cool on Wonka's skin after the heat of Hannibal's home. Wonka could smell Hannibal's cologne as he brushed past him and felt very strangely about it.

Hannibal had considered killing him tonight at dinner. There was still time to go through with it. But he rationalized that killing a beast with a full stomach would be sort of a mess. Besides, other pleasures could still be taken.

"Thank you for dinner," Wonka said.

"My pleasure," Hannibal replied. "Why don't we make this a regular thing? Every Friday night?"

Wonka wasn't sure what the protocol for leaving an intimate dinner was.

_No not an intimate dinner. Wrong word. Bad word. Not intimate. It was just a dinner, that's all it was._

He was struck with the sudden image of what a girl might be likely to do at the ending of a dinner such as this. One held in candlelight over classical music...

_Bad thoughts. Inapplicable thoughts._

Hannibal knew exactly what Wonka was thinking, but refused to make it easy for him. He preferred a long game. A more satisfying hunt.

"Goodnight, Will," he said as he closed the door.

He knew Will would be back. There was no reason in his mind to doubt it.

He'd caught that fish, now all that was left was to reel it in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be on hiatus next week, but I'll be back the week after with 3 new chapters!


	7. First Main Course

The dinners were, at first, a supplement to the messy work of therapy, but they quickly became something more. Wonka still hesitated to use the word 'intimate', though they were often lit only by candlelight and the music could be construed as romantic. He felt as though he was doing something secret and forbidden by coming here, though nothing of any significance had occurred. It was simply two friends discussing philosophy over increasingly lavish meals. 

"I feel my contributions to these meals are woefully inadequate," Wonka remarked on one such occasion.

"What do you mean?" Hannibal replied. "You bankroll the entire spread. The least you can do is indulge in it."

"That's another interesting word," Wonka said. "Indulge. It has certain connotations."

"I suppose it would to a learned churchman like yourself."

"Reformed," he corrected.

"Yes," Hannibal smiled. "Reformed churchman. You split much like Martin Luther with your grievances in hand. Yet you still feel a certain inclination toward guilt and recoil at the very notion of indulgence."

"Guilt is a hard thing to shake," he acknowledged.

"Indeed. Guilt isn't man's natural state. Man rises from the womb prideful and brash. It is only after repeated lessons that we learn to feel guilt and shame about our natural state. We invent elaborate mythology explaining why we must hide our bodies instead of acknowledging that man created clothing to keep us warm in cold months. There's nothing inherently immoral about a state of undress. Are you a Biblical scholar, Will?"

"No, I'm not," he admitted. "You think I would be, since I was forced to read the Bible cover to cover as a punishment once."

"But you didn't retain it?"

"Not anything useful, anyway."

"What were you being punished for?"

A smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "Funnily enough, gluttony."

"What's so funny about that?"

Wonka gestured to the 8 course meal in front of them. "The indulgence, as you'd say."

"Does this indulgence cause you undue guilt, Will?"

"I don't know if I'd say it's undue."

"But why?"

"Is gluttony not one of the cardinal sins, Doctor Lecter?"

Hannibal tilted his head as he regarded Will's expression. "I'll address that in a moment, but I'm more interested in how you seemed almost amused as you said that."

"Ah. You noticed that?"

"Indeed."

"I realized half-way through the statement that I have no idea why they're called cardinal sins. A cardinal is in a high position in the catholic church, so you'd expect one to be free of sin, wouldn't you?"

"The Borgias might be an obvious exception."

"Yes, but being an exception to the rule proves that people wouldn't expect one to behave with impropriety," Wonka countered. "Unless you grew up in that particular cesspit, in which case you know priests commit abuses regularly and with impunity. But to say something is a cardinal sin...Which cardinal had to commit so many sins that it became named after him? Perhaps, as you said, a Borgia? Or maybe birds are inherently sinful? Maybe cardinals are just pigeons stained with the blood of their enemies? Birds are known to take up the color of the thing it consumes - I've heard of flamingos becoming pink from shrimp."

Hannibal smiled. "Not quite, but you're right - there is a connection buried deep in the terminology. The Latin _cardinalis_ meant essential. It was a figurative adjective from the word _cardo_ , meaning hinge or something on which something turns or depends. From this we get the cardinal winds and points, because the interpreted meaning could also be the pole of the sky, pertaining to directions of a compass. Even cardinal numbers come from this definition, because they're the principle numbers that ordinal numbers depend on. _Cardinalis_ also means chief, which is where we get the word for a Catholic cardinal. The bird is so named because its plumage shares the same colors as a cardinal's robes."

"You're very well-versed on the matter," Wonka remarked.

"I'm fluent in Latin," replied Hannibal matter-of-factly. "But you were asking about the cardinal sins?"

"I was."

"I admit to always harboring a bit of confusion on the subject," Hannibal admitted. "The list contains many seemingly benign elements, but claims they are more deadly than any other sin?"

"It's not about being more severe in magnitude," Wonka said. "The sins are named because they are the root of all other sin. One who steals from another did it in an act of greed and so on."

"So in order to criminalize the action, we must first criminalize the thought."

"Exactly. It makes a lot of sense when you think of it that way."

"But one cannot exactly control his mind, can he? The religious community claims to hate the sin, but love the sinner, yet they make every passing thought into a sin. The only morality is a mind free of impulse or intrusive thoughts."

"It really explains the self-flagellation, doesn't it?"

"Indeed."

...

When Wonka arrived for his next dinner, no meal had been prepared.

"I thought, perhaps, you might want to help prepare it," Hannibal said.

Wonka did admit to a bit of curiosity as a fellow master of the culinary arts, so of course he accepted.

"So what is your secret, Hannibal?" he asked as he chopped some scallions.

"I have a great many secrets, Will. To which are you referring?"

"To your culinary prowess, of course. I don't suppose you'd lie to me and tell me that it's love?"

Hannibal smiled. "A certain type of love, perhaps. Love takes many forms."

"Not a Christly love, then?"

"Not quite, though hopefully just as tender." He observed the way Will was chopping the vegetable. "Not quite like that. Let me show you." He stepped behind him. "May I?"

Wonka felt goosebumps erupt like constellations upon his skin as Hannibal's breath caressed the back of his neck. Wonka hesitated for reasons he couldn't quite explain before nodding his consent. "Please." He'd meant it like a casual, welcoming invitation, but it had come out instead as almost begging for something he couldn't quite name.

Hannibal slowly pressed his chest to Will's back and gently ran his hands along his arms as he guided him in the correct movements. "Gentle and precise," Hannibal said softly. "We must be deliberate in all our actions if we want the best results."

Wonka's heart was pounding and he had to remind himself to breathe. He could feel Hannibal's hands as if they were burning holes through the long sleeves of his shirt. He felt something forbidden about this, but could not bring himself to even consider giving it up.

"Y-you're..." He cleared his throat. "You're very deliberate in your actions, aren't you, Doctor Lecter?"

"I am," Hannibal admitted. "I calculate every outcome before I take action. You might want to make sure your sleeves are out of the way." He helped Wonka to roll up his sleeves and he had to wonder if the way he trailed his fingers along his newly-exposed skin was deliberate. "I was thinking about our last conversation."

"Which one was that?"

"About the cardinal sins. It seems to me that most of what the Christian faith deems inappropriate is the simple act of wanting anything. It is not enough that we must deem gluttony a sin, but we must differentiate greed from it as a separate entity. We must not indulge in excess, nor desire to indulge in the excess itself."

"It makes sense from a historical perspective," remarked Wonka. "These were poor shepherds and working people. They saw how monstrous their ruling class was and framed themselves by opposition to them. We must not even want to emulate the excesses of the ruling class because that expends too much energy."

"But to say that a life of piety has to be completely divorced from wanting is setting people up to feel bad about their own lives when they do inevitably want what they do not have. I understand framing excess as sinful, but surely not every instance of these feelings is a sin? We can feel pride in our own accomplishments without being completely insufferable about it. Surely it is not always a bad thing to give in to envy, anger...lust..."

Wonka wasn't having trouble breathing anymore. In fact, he couldn't seem to calm himself. He found himself inexplicably pulled as though by a magnet to look at Hannibal by turning his head ever so slightly. This did nothing to alleviate the strange things he was feeling as he found the inky depths of Hannibal's eyes strangely alluring.

 _What's happening to me?_ he thought. He'd never felt anything like this before.

Wonka couldn't help but stare as Hannibal's lips curved into a smile. Hannibal was very aware of the effect he was having on the young confectioner, but was determined to draw out the chase as long as possible. He moved away from him, but kept a friendly hand on his right arm.

"Add that to the pot," he said. "We're going to leave it to simmer."

"What will we do in the meantime?" Wonka asked. Surely it was his proximity to the stove that was causing him to sweat so much.

"I can think of a thing or two," Hannibal said cryptically.

...

Hannibal led him out behind the house to a small shed.

"Where are we going?" asked Wonka.

"To visit my chickens," Hannibal said. "I keep them out behind the shed."

"You have _chickens?_ " Wonka asked.

"A few," he admitted. "I do have a preference for butchering my own meat. I like knowing where my food comes from." They arrived at the coop, where three plump brown hens were milling about. "What do you think?"

"They look so innocent," Wonka said. "Like they don't understand their place in the order of things."

"No creature fully understands its place in the order of things," Hannibal said. "We are all of us making do with the ecosystem we've been given, but there's always a pecking order. If any of us fully understood our purpose in the world, we'd be immobilized with terror." He gestured. "Pick one."

"For what?"

"For our supper."

Wonka shook his head. "Oh no, I couldn't."

"It's your meal, Will, so it's up to you to select a preference."

"I'd rather not know the animal," Wonka admitted. "It's one thing to see it prepared, but quite another to see it innocent and alive."

"We are all food for some other creature, Will," Hannibal insisted. "Death is inescapable, we can only hope to provide ample nourishment when we go."

"All the same," Wonka said firmly. "I-I don't think I can. I'm sorry."

Hannibal was disappointed but not surprised. This had been a test. Wonka was simply not ready to be pushed over this line. But this was still good groundwork. The foundation had been laid for further experimentation. 

He placed his hands upon Wonka's cheeks and tenderly caressed his face. "There is absolutely nothing in this world to feel guilty about," he said gently. "When you are ready, we will explore this further."

Wonka's face grew hot beneath Hannibal's touch as he wondered if the doctor had a double meaning. "And how will I know when I am ready?"

The moment grew long as Hannibal gazed into his eyes before answering: "You will ask." He took his hands away, thinking this was quite enough temptation for the moment. "We will find something more suitable for consumption inside. Come now."

Wonka allowed himself to be led back to the house with a mind that was clouded with confusion and regrets.


	8. Palate Cleanser

Hannibal had been slowly incorporating more unconventional techniques into his sessions with Wonka. Many of them involved more targeted sessions of hypnotherapy, which of course Wonka was completely unaware of.

Wonka's voice was distant and slow. "It's like I'm in this tunnel..."

"Where in the tunnel, Will?" Hannibal prompted. "Beginning or end?"

"Right in the center," Wonka said. "There's no light at either end. I'm trapped there. I can't go back. I keep going forward, but I never get any closer to the end. And I see the most horrible things..."

"Sometimes it helps us to manifest our horrors in the light of day," Hannibal said. "Then perhaps we can make others see what lives within our minds."

"Yes..."

"Have you been in this tunnel before, Will?"

Wonka nodded slowly. "As a child, I was taunted by the other children. They once trapped me in a drainage pipe. They'd hit me pretty hard on the head, so I kept hallucinating the most horrible things. The smallest insect larvae would turn into gigantic monsters."

"It still haunts your dreams to this day?"

"Over and over," he admitted. "But always with new images. I never get out the other side."

"Can you imagine a place with more safety?" Hannibal said.

"I can," he admitted. "But I could never make it a reality."

"Anything is possible, Will. You've been held back all your life by people with limited vision. Now you hold yourself back from achieving your full potential. I'm certain that a person in your position must have many competitors."

"I do."

"You must catch them frequently at your doorstep, trying to peer in. How many of your employees have you had to sack because they turned out to be traitorous spies working to undermine all you've built?"

"None," said Will, alarmed by the prospect. "My employees are loyal."

"But how can you be certain, Will? Can you ever really trust anyone that would sell their labor to the highest bidder? What if someone offered them a better price? How much does silence truly cost?"

"I-I don't know," Wonka stammered.

Hannibal could sense that Wonka was teetering on the edge. This was exactly where he wanted him. All he needed to do now was pull him back from the brink to lull him into a false sense of security before putting him there again. 

"I think that's enough for today," Hannibal said, after bringing him out of his semi-hypnotic state.

"Food for thought, was it?" said Wonka, who only had the vaguest notions of what had been discussed.

Hannibal smiled. "If you'd like food for thought, I'm hosting a dinner party this weekend."

"We discussed this," Wonka said. "I'm not the most sociable company."

"You don't need to worry," Hannibal replied. "There's no need to be anxious about showing your face."

"Why's that?"

"Because this will be a masquerade." 


	9. Second Main Course

Wonka looked in the mirror and was completely dissatisfied with his appearance.

A simple gray suit? Was that the best he could do? This was a masquerade party and not a business meeting!

Wonka simply wasn't the kind of person who did these sorts of things. A masquerade? He wouldn't know the first thing about a masquerade!

 _I should just call and cancel,_ he said. _Say I'm very sorry it's last minute, but something came up and I can't make it..._

Then a knock came at his door, startling him from his spiraling thoughts.

"Who is it?" he called.

"It's Hannibal," said a voice on the other side of the door.

"Dr. Lecter?" Wonka said. He hadn't been expecting him. He opened the door. "What are you doing here?"

Hannibal smiled. "I predicted that you'd be having second thoughts about coming tonight, so I thought I'd make it easier on you." He held out a garment bag. "For tonight."

But Wonka didn't move. "How do you know where I live?"

"It was on your patient intake form."

"Is it ethical for you to use that information?"

"Does it bother you that I did?"

"No," he said truthfully. "But it should."

"I've never found 'should' to be a very useful word. May I come in?"

Wonka stood aside to let Hannibal come in. "That's for me?"

"Yes," Hannibal said. "I had to guess your size, but I think this should do nicely."

He hadn't guessed his size. He'd broken in while Wonka had been at work and taken his measurements.

"Try it on," Hannibal said. "By all means."

"Alright," Wonka said. "But I'm going in the next room. For privacy."

"If you like."

...

"How do you like it?" Hannibal called through the door several minutes later.

"It's not at all what I expected," Wonka admitted.

"I tried to pick something that captured your true essence," he said. "Please. Let me see."

"Come in then."

Hannibal hadn't picked out a suit at all. He'd picked out some khaki slacks and a floral print purple shirt.

"You think this is me?" Wonka asked as he watched his reflection in the mirror.

"Not yet," Hannibal said. "Not until you put on the coat. Here, let me help you..."

Hannibal took the long purple coat off of the bed and helped Wonka put it on. "There," he said. "Very handsome."

"You think so?" Hannibal asked.

"I do." He took the last element off the table. "It comes with a hat." 

Next thing Wonka knew, he was wearing a red top hat. He had to admit, he sort of liked how this ensemble made him look.

"But you said it's a masquerade?" Wonka asked. "Don't I need a mask?"

"You do," said Hannibal. "And I brought you one. It's just a simple black masquerade mask. I didn't think you'd want anything too ostentatious."

"And you're sure no one will know it's me?" asked Wonka.

Hannibal smiled. "If you wish to conceal yourself even further, I have a cane you can borrow. Just as a cover."

...

Hannibal's house was so different when he entertained. The normally quiet, dimly lit home was spectacularly fitted with many dozens of candles. People in splendid clothes mingled over finger foods. Hannibal himself had opted for a large bird mask that reminded Wonka a bit of plague doctors.

"Feel free to mingle," Hannibal said. "Remember, nobody knows you. You can be anyone tonight."

Something about this was oddly emboldening. He found himself engaging in philosophical discourse with people he'd never spoken to and likely never would again. He was quite enjoying himself.

"Some wine, Will?" asked Hannibal.

Wonka thought about reminding him that he didn't drink, but then remembered that he was someone else tonight. "Oh what the hell," he said. "Why not?"

"We can always try something a little more fun than wine," said a posh female party guest in a red dress and a tiger mask.

"What's more fun than wine?" asked Hannibal.

She reached into her clutch then dangled a baggie in front of them. "Mushrooms."

"Ah," Hannibal said. "Psilocybe cubensis. I know it well."

"Isn't that dangerous?" asked Wonka. 

"Anything and everything worth doing in life poses dangers, Will," said Hannibal. "I've never had a bad experience with it. I use it often in my treatment." 

He'd actually been considering slipping Wonka some without his knowledge, but the opportunity hadn't presented itself.

"So you recommend it, Dr. Lecter?"

Hannibal smiled. "I do recommend it, Will."

"Then I trust you. Let's do this."

...

It took a while for the mushrooms to kick in.

"How are you feeling, Will?" Hannibal asked.

His voice was far away and Wonka was having trouble focusing on him.

He held up a hand in the universal signal for "A-Okay".

Hannibal smiled. "That's very good, Will."

They were sitting together in a corner seat by themselves at the edge of the party, completely shrouded in shadows. Wonka looked around at the guests who were all in the throws of passionate affairs and felt a pang of envy as well as something a little bit warmer.

"What kind of party is this, Dr. Lecter?" Wonka asked.

"A very friendly party," Hannibal said. "My friends do like to indulge themselves in the pleasures of the flesh. Does it bother you?"

"My mind is so awake, Dr. Lecter," Wonka said. "I'm very very awake and I know everything I wanted to know..."

Hannibal gripped Will's forearm in a supportive manner. "What do you know, Will?"

Wonka began hallucinating that vines were spreading from Hannibal and coiling around his arm. Somehow this didn't bother him. 

"I see everything, Dr. Lecter."

"What do you see?"

"Sin. It's everywhere. All the time. Inescapable as death. It's a part of us. The most fundamental part of us. The only way to live a sin-free life is to be rid of it by adulthood. We can't be free because we're adults, we're set in our ways."

"Meaning what, Will?"

"Meaning I don't want to fight it anymore. I don't want to continue denying myself what I want."

"Will-"

"That's not my name," Wonka said. "I mean it is, but it isn't. This is all a lie. I don't sell pastries."

Here it was, the moment of truth. "Then what do you sell?"

"Candy. My real name is Willy Wonka. I'm the candy man. That's who I am tonight. Not Willy Wonka, just the candy man."

"It wasn't so much of a lie then. You still make sweet things. You make the world taste good."

"But that's the problem, Dr. Lecter. I make the world taste good, but I never get to taste...I'd like to...just once..."

Wonka kissed him tentatively, like an exploration of something forbidden which may at any moment utterly destroy him.

He gasped as he pulled away slightly. "Dr. Lecter-"

"Please, call me Hannibal."

"Okay," he whispered. "Hannibal. I don't know if I can do this."

"Maybe you can't," Hannibal said. "But the candy man can."

Wonka kissed him with so much passion that Hannibal's mask and Wonka's hat both completely came off. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LMAO things are getting heated, I guess? But I've gotta leave you for 2 weeks. When I return, I'll bring to you the three part conclusion of this series!


	10. Cheese Course

"Tell me what you're thinking," Hannibal said.

Wonka stared at the ceiling. "Is this professional curiosity?"

Hannibal smiled. "Not entirely. Not for a long while."

Morning had found the two of them in Hannibal's bed, and Wonka hadn't dared to move. "This all feels like a strange dream," he admitted. "I'm scared that I'll wake up."

"Would waking up be so bad?"

"I just can't believe that was really me. I've never..."

Hannibal smiled. "I know."

"It just felt so..."

"Natural?"

"Right. Natural. I know I've been taught that what we did wasn't natural. It's a perversion, a crime against nature."

"You believe that?"

"No no," he assured him. "I mean, I don't know. In my head, I don't."

"But it's harder to shake the feeling that you've done something wrong."

"Yeah. I've never even had these thoughts before."

"You haven't? Not even once?"

"You have to understand that I was so repressed. I didn't let myself think about anyone in any capacity. I focused on my candy. That was all."

"You buried your desires so deep, it's a wonder they didn't explode out of you before now."

"One has to wonder about the ethics of this situation."

"This situation?"

" _Our_ situation."

"Ah. You're concerned about the doctor-patient relationship."

"It would be easy for someone to believe that you are preying on a vulnerable patient."

"Is that what you believe?"

"No no...I just know what the optics of the situation would be."

"You could fire me."

He rolled over to look at Hannibal. "But then what would you do?"

"I have a practice," he said. "I'd manage."

"I don't want to fire you, though."

"Why's that?"

"Because..." He didn't know quite how to phrase it exactly. "Because..."

"Because you still want an excuse to see me? You don't need therapy as your excuse. You can continue to see me socially, Will. Our relationship is completely in your control. You just have to know what you want."

"I don't know what I want."

"Then let me help you. Tell me of some hidden desire, something that passes through your mind every so often but you dare not dream could be a reality."

"I don't know..."

"It doesn't matter how wild or outlandish. I can make it happen for you. Anything you want to, do it. Do you want to effect some sort of sweeping social change? If you want to change the world, there's nothing to it."

"There is one thing...But it's silly...Nobody could do that..."

"The Candy Man can."

...

The two of them returned to the factory to find it empty.

"There's no one here, Will," Hannibal observed.

"We're closed on Sundays," Wonka explained.

"Is that good for business?" Hannibal asked. "Could you not make wider profits with a round the clock operation?"

"I suppose I could..." Wonka said. "I'll take it under advisement. I'll have to think of the logistics."

He led Hannibal to his office and looked through his files. "It's in here somewhere....Aha." He found a colorful drawing that had clearly been created by a child. It was old, likely a few decades. "Don't laugh."

"What is it?" Hannibal asked.

"I drew this when I was a kid," Wonka said. "I've still got all my old notebooks that I used to draw in. The sisters didn't like me doing that, so I had to hide them everywhere...But this is the first blueprint I ever had for a candy factory. Now you see why it can't be done, not even by you? A chocolate waterfall that churns all the chocolate, edible wallpaper, golden geese that lay chocolate eggs..."

"I actually know where to get golden geese," Hannibal said.

"You're joking."

"I'm not! I came across the rare breed in my travels. They're a carefully kept secret by a tribe known as the Oompa Loompas."

"Now I know you're making this up."

"I promise you, this is all true. These Oompa Loompas are in danger of dying out, though. Their environment is harsh and their way of life is being threatened, but they're a genius people. There's never been a technological problem they couldn't hack." Then he had an idea. "I bet if you shipped in Oompa Loompas to run your factory, they could build this dream factory for you. They're far more efficient than anyone you have on your payroll, and I'm sure we could convince them to work for free in exchange for lodgings."

"I would like to find a way to boost sales," Wonka admitted. "Oompa Loompas working alongside my workers-"

"No, not alongside. Instead of. Your workers are inefficient. They require breaks and holidays and time off. Oompa Loompas wouldn't. Besides, once this starts being built, you run the risk of people on the outside hearing about your methods. You don't want that, do you? A normal employee can be payed off by a competitor to give up the secret of your chocolate waterfall. An Oompa Loompa who never leaves this factory couldn't tell a soul. I know you've been worried about your competitors lately."

This was by design. Hannibal was determined to create a state of paranoia in Wonka. He'd been succeeding completely, even without Wonka himself knowing it.

There was a tiny voice in his head telling him that there was something unethical about this proposition, but he was overwhelmed by Hannibal's pitch. "If I do all this, I could really do it? I could really make my dream factory?"

"The Candy Man can," Hannibal assured him. "Here. Come with me." He guided Wonka to the window that looked down on the workroom floor. He stood behind Wonka with his hands on his shoulders. "Hold your breath. Make a wish. Count to three. Do you see what this could become?"

"I-"

"Don't overthink it," Hannibal said. "Use your imagination. That pure, childlike imagination that adults tried so hard to beat out of you. I can help you turn this dream into a reality. But you'll have to fire me first."

"Why?"

"Because I won't be your therapist anymore."

"What'll you be then?" He found himself holding his breath. "My - my partner?"

Hannibal smiled. "A silent partner, perhaps. I wouldn't want to take the credit for your vision. But I'll be with you every step of the way. Come with me and you'll be in a world of pure imagination. Do you think you can do that, Will?"

He took a breath. "The old me couldn't. But the Candy Man can."

...

The workers were in complete shock when they came in on Monday morning. Their boss had been acting strangely for weeks - not that he wasn't always strange, mind - but this was really taking the cake. He was dressed lavishly in a red top hat and a purple coat. He even had a walking stick! This man didn't even have a limp! What did he need a walking stick for?

He announced that they were all being let go.

"Is the factory closing?" asked one man.

"No, the factory will remain open," Wonka replied. "I just have no use of staff."

"But how will I feed my family?"

"That's not my problem."

"What will you do? Are you hiring cheap foreign workers? Are we being automated out? Why is this happening?"

"Why do you want to know?" Wonka asked suspiciously. "Are you working for Slugworth? Is that what's happening here? You're pushing for information so you can give him all my trade secrets when you sell over to him?"

"No," the worker replied, genuinely baffled by Wonka's outburst. "I just want to understand why this is happening."

"It's happening because I have no use for you anymore," Wonka said. "You're obsolete. Please collect your things and leave."

...

The factory was dark and empty in the absence of his workers. It felt almost spooky. 

"The Oompa Loompas will be here within a week. I've arranged to have them brought here. It is vitally important that no one know of them."

"I understand," Wonka said.

"How does it feel?"

"How does what feel?"

"Being free?"

He scoffed. "Free? What does that mean? Am I free?"

"If you truly wish to be. We're only as free as we make ourselves. Now you are beholden to no one, at the cusp of creating an empire. That seems to me the very definition of freedom. Freedom to be who you want, freedom to want who you want..."

Wonka was so mixed up that he didn't even know which way was up anymore. The only thing he did know is that he _did_ want Hannibal. Hannibal brought out a part of him that he hadn't known existed, and he liked the way that felt.

"Freedom," Wonka mused. He kissed Hannibal. "Yes. If this is freedom then I like how it feels."

...

Wonka couldn't help but stare.

"What is it?" Hannibal asked. "Do you want me to send them back?"

"No no," Wonka said. "I just hadn't expected them to be quite so..."

"What?" Hannibal asked, even though he knew.

"Orange?" Wonka finished. "And is that their real hair color?"

Hannibal smiled. "They're an almost extinct tribe. Be kind to them. They have a very strict moral code, so you have to be careful not to offend them. When in Loompaland, one must do as the Oompa Loompa do."

Wonka turned back to the assembled Oompa Loompas. "Oompa Loompas," he said. "Welcome. We have your lodgings all made up for you. Make yourselves at home. I look forward to working with each and every one of you."

"Question, Mr. Wonka," piped up one Oompa Loompa.

"Yes?" Wonka said.

"How great is the risk of being preyed upon by Whangdoodles in this region?"

Wonka glanced at Hannibal for help. "Whang...doodles?"

"They're not native to this land," Hannibal said.

"What about Hornswogglers?"

"We don't have those here either."

"Snozzwangers?"

"None of those."

"Vermicious Knids?"

"No," Wonka said. "None of those things exist here. You're completely safe. You're free." He glanced at Hannibal then back at the Oompa Loompas. "If you truly wish to be."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we go lol. Our criticism of capitalism has reached the slave labor portion, as you knew it would. Wonka's downward spiral is going into full swing now, and Hannibal is enjoying every second of it. We're now entering Hell Week, I guess you could say. Set your countdown clocks - this story will be ending Saturday. We know where it's going, the fun part is how do we get there.
> 
> When I'm writing this, I'm always torn between being absolutely disgusted at myself and thinking I'm hilarious and feeling a slight stab of pain in the nostalgia centers of my heart. I actually really love the original Wonka movie. It's one of my favorite movies of all time. So at the same time that I'm laughing at my own references, I'm acutely aware that I'm desecrating them entirely. I could've chosen to do the Tim Burton version as my template, but my god...I barely acknowledge that one's existence. It's fine, but like...No Gene Wilder. Plus how could I make the case that Wonka started out as a pretty normal guy before Wonka corrupted him if he Acts Like That? Also he already had an established backstory in that version, so there's no room to play with it. So I had to go and rip apart my lovely Gene Wilder Wonka. I won't lie, it hurts a bit. But I've had an idea for a Wonka parody series in my head for a few years now that someday I'll actually write as a TV series so I was kind of always destined to destroy what I love.


	11. Dessert

With the help of Hannibal and the Oompa Loompas, it only took Wonka a year to reopen the factory. He felt so unburdened for the first time in a very long time. Ideas were simply flying from his brain, and it seemed easier than ever to make them happen.

There was no grand opening when the factory reopened. One day, the factory wasn't exporting, then the next it was. A statement was sent to the local newspapers announcing the new product line, but Mr. Wonka himself was never available for comment. 

Reporters waited outside the gates for even a glimpse of the elusive candy maker, but that never came. In fact, no one ever seemed to come in or out of the building. They knew people were in there, because steam rose from the chimneys and candy always reached the shelves, but no one could figure out how exactly Wonka was managing it.

The Wonka bar, such a staple for the company, was no longer the entire draw of the company. Suddenly shelves were full of Whipple-Scrumptious Fudge-Mallow Delights and Scrumpdiddlyumptious Bars.

Wonka slammed a newspaper down on the table. "Did you see this?"

"I have told you, Will," Hannibal said. "You should never read your own press."

"That Prodnose has stolen my candy bubbles!" Wonka said.

"He reverse engineered a recipe," Hannibal replied. "His are cheap knock-offs and everyone knows it."

Wonka's fits of paranoia were getting more and more frequent. Some days he was almost completely unable to function. This was how Hannibal liked it. If Wonka couldn't leave the factory for fear of what would happen, then he could have him all to himself to torment.

...

"That's horrible," CW said. "How could you do something like that?"

"It was quite easy, actually," Hannibal said. "He's at his most brilliant when he's competitive." He gestured around to the splendor all around them. "Do you think he could've achieved all of this without the added pressure?"

"Well you'll never know, will you?" the reporter asked. "Because you completely dismantled this poor guy."

A boat began making its way down the chocolate river toward them.

"Ah," Hannibal said. "Our ride has arrived."

"What's that?" CW asked suspiciously.

"I asked the Oompa Loompas to get the boat out for us," Hannibal said cordially. "I wanted to show hospitality to our guest."

"Yeah, I'm not getting on that thing," she said.

"But you want the rest of the story, don't you?"

CW weighed her options. She knew there was only one way that boat could travel, and it was back down that dark tunnel. She didn't think she fancied that. But some other, horribly curious part of herself was powerless because she simply had to know how the story ended.

"Curiosity killed the cat," she said miserably.

"But satisfaction brought it back," he smiled as he held out a hand to help her onto the boat.

The Oompa Loompas rowed at a leisurely pace.

"You know you've preyed on this poor man, don't you?" CW said. "I see this kinda thing all the time. Children who were raised in an overbearing environment - _especially_ if it's religious - will get addicted to the first affection they ever receive, whether it's healthy or not."

"I know," Hannibal said. "That's what attracted me to him. He was so gloriously repressed, he just needed a guiding hand."

"Guiding him toward what?"

Hannibal smiled. "We studied this sort of thing in school. It seems to present itself more with women. If you've never been taught healthy boundaries or modeled a healthy relationship, of course you won't know how to recognize someone love bombing you. Those young girls who link up with older men who are essentially predators - that's usually why. They never received any attention from an older person before and enjoy how mature it helps them feel. The same happens quite often with homosexual relationships, though that's often more publicized. It's part of our moral perversion, they say. We corrupt the youth."

"But Wonka is your age."

"He's an emotional infant," Hannibal said. "So easily guided. The nuns never gave him care or affection, they only taught him that everything he was was wrong. He buried himself so deep that he didn't even know he was lost. You see, when it's a gay relationship that is predatory, it's a whole other layer added to it. Society and religion dictates that any and all relationships between two men must be corrupt and sinful and wrong. So that results in the young homosexual having no support system, no elders to ask advice of and very few romantically viable options. This results in a feeling that you must take what you can get. Will was easy to corrupt, because he had no support system to tell him that what I was doing was deeply unethical and bad for him. He very easily could have been saved if society really knew what to save him from. Human beings are often so terrible at identifying the real threat."

"Maybe if someone could just get him away from you-"

"And do some cult deprogramming? Unlikely. He's hardly innocent in this all. He is in far too deep with the slave labor for his hands to be at all clean. And that will be doubly true after tomorrow."

"What's happening tomorrow?"

"What's your name?"

"Excuse me?"

"You want an exclusive, and I want mine. What's your name?"

"CW," she replied. "You know that."

"Initials don't tell the full story. Why hide behind them at all?"

"My given name was too childish to be taken seriously as a real journalist."

"That just makes me even more curious. What's your name?"

"The W stands for Winifred-"

"That's deflection," he said. "What does the C stand for?"

She hesitated, but then decided that she wanted the scoop too much not to give up what he wanted. "Candy."

He grinned. "Candy Winifred Scattergood. An oddly fitting name for a byline on this piece. We do all become our names, one way or another."

"Now about this Wonka thing-"

"Yes, this Wonka thing," he said. "He's very suspicious of me as well, only in fits and starts. He has a terrible temper when he's lucid. Accuses me of all manner of things, says I keep him trapped in a candy castle. Says this is all my fault."

"Which it is."

"Of course it is. I tell him he can leave whenever he wishes, which is also perfectly true. He can choose to leave. But he doesn't. We're only as free as we wish to be. And I've created this maze in his mind that is so elaborate that even when he's right he second guesses himself. It's a work of art. But you asked what's happening tomorrow. We're launching a contest."

"A contest?"

"Five lucky children will be able to win a golden ticket to this very factory. Wonka is intending to leave his entire legacy to one of the winners. Of course the game is all rigged. We've selected the children in advance. You can tell the game is rigged just by looking around you now. We've constructed elaborate torture scenarios for each of the children based on their particular deadly sin. It's genius, really. Wonka really has become so vindictive in his old age. But as I was saying, you can tell the game is rigged just by looking around. We're fully expecting one of the children to fall in the chocolate river, which is why there isn't a seat on this boat for him."

"That's horrible." CW was beginning to not like this tunnel. She jumped as she noticed the scary images that flashed on the sides. "What the hell is this place?"

Hannibal was completely unperturbed. "Oh this? I told you Will has terrible nightmare about a pipe that schoolyard bullies trapped him in. I created this tunnel for his therapy. Exposure therapy, of a sort. I also use it to tug ever so slightly at the fraying edges of his psyche. I use this poem as sort of a trigger in here... _"_

The Oompa Loompas began rowing faster and CW's sense of dread was climbing.

_"_ _There’s no earthly way of knowing_  
_Which direction we are going_  
_There’s no knowing where we’re rowing_  
_Or which way the river’s flowing_

_Is it raining, is it snowing_  
_Is a hurricane a-blowing_

_Not a speck of light is showing_  
_So the danger must be growing_  
_Are the fires of Hell a-glowing_  
_Is the grisly reaper mowing_

_Yes, the danger must be growing_  
_For the rowers keep on rowing_  
_And they’re certainly not showing_  
_Any signs that they are slowing!"_

"I want to get off this boat!" CW demanded. "Let me off this boat right now!"

"You followed the angler fish into the dark, Miss Scattergood!" Hannibal said. "I'm afraid by the time you saw the jaws, it was far too late to avoid the teeth!"

"Let me off right now!" She got to her feet, intending to jump from the side to escape.

"I'm afraid I cannot allow you to contaminate the river!" Hannibal said. "I'd express my deepest regrets over your unfortunate situation, but I must admit it has been nice to talk to someone who isn't Will or an Oompa Loompa." He pulled her back into her seat. "Was it worth it?"

"What?"

"You got your scoop. You now know you will never deliver it. Was it enough to satiate your curiosity? To satisfy your lust for knowledge? To have that tenacity and cunning that you prize so dearly be your very downfall...It is a fitting end, after all."

"You're insane."

He snapped her neck in one fluid motion. "That was never the question."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One chapter left, coming Saturday!


	12. Mignardise

Wonka placed his customary hat on his head. "We understand each other, then," he said, keeping his back turned to Hannibal. "We understand what our part in this must be."

Hannibal sat leisurely in the chair in Wonka's office. "We've selected the children. That took quite a bit of travel on my part, finding children who exactly met your standards."

"Except Charlie."

"Except Charlie."

The reason for this whole experiment had happened the last time Wonka had tried to leave Hannibal. He'd thought he'd slip away in the night, see a bit of the outside world for the first time in years. He was incognito, unrecognizable. He stared at a young couple who was very much in love. At one time, he'd deluded himself into thinking that one day he and Hannibal could love each other. But they couldn't. Wonka himself was a broken man and Hannibal loved far too much to see how much more he could take. He wondered what it might've been like if he'd known sooner. Might there have been a love? A family? Someone or something else infinitely more fulfilling than his life as Hannibal Lecter's test subject? The thought filled him with too much sorrow.

Even there in the night, he wasn't free. He walked to the edge of a bridge.

He peered over the edge and contemplated letting it end. A fitting end to Hannibal's little experiment. The subject would annihilate itself. Hannibal had once compared him to one of Harry Harlow's monkeys - raised by a wire mother and never knowing warmth. This monkey would dash its brains out against the bars.

But then he saw the boy. A pale, scrawny slip of a boy whose raggedy clothing couldn't possibly be keeping him warm on a night like this. He was haggling with a food vendor for a loaf of bread, but wasn't doing a very good job. He was too soft spoken, too timid. Someone that polite only haggled out of desperation. This child didn't have enough money to buy that bread, but he needed it.

The vendor knew this and accepted what little money he did have in exchange for the loaf. This was an extraordinary act of kindness, but Wonka also recognized the look of pity. He knew it well as an orphan.

Wonka decided there and then that he'd give this boy whatever money he had in his pockets. He followed him to his home, which was basically a run down shack with a leaky roof and an obvious mold problem. Wonka wondered at how he could live there. Was he a homeless orphan?

He peered into the window. The boy had a caring, gentle mother who quizzed him about his day and praised him for the bread. It was all they'd have that night to feed themselves and the four bedridden grandparents who shared one bed in the main room.

Wonka watched them for a while. It was so cold out there on the stoop. He was sad that he'd never had a family nearly this warm. 

This was worse than he'd thought. The money in his pockets wouldn't be adequate to help this family.

So he devised a plan to give Charlie his factory.

"You're certain it's wise to give a boy your factory?" Hannibal said in the present. "He's just a child."

"A child in need of a home," Wonka said. "He needs some stability. Besides, you're the one who said my creative block always comes from a lack of childlike wonder. Charlie has that. He can run this factory, I'm confident of it. But you know what you must do to make this happen."

Hannibal nodded. "I make certain the bars make it to the right children at the right time. Then I pose as your competitor, Slugworth, in order to see which child can be corrupted to give up your secrets to the competition."

"This is a trap for Charlie as well," Wonka reminded him. "The other children are expected to fail. We hope Charlie won't. We hope he has integrity learned from his humble upbringing."

"There's one thing I wanted to ask you," he said. "You went into this with the idea that you'd punish each child for a deadly sin. I understand your preoccupation with the concept-"

"Because you helped it flourish," Wonka said bitterly. "You've planted that seed in my mind and now it's all I can think about."

"Augustus Gloop is gluttony, Violet Beauregard is pride, Veruca Salt is greed, Mike Teevee is sloth-"

"You have a very simple view of what we've done here, Hannibal."

"Then enlighten me."

"Everyone is being tested for the sin of greed," Wonka explained. "Everyone, including young Charlie. As an impoverished child, he is susceptible to greed in a way that the others aren't. The others were born into greed. He has the potential to develop it."

"As you did."

"With your encouragement. I allowed you to cultivate these sins within me and now they're a part of me, inseparable from me. I can see the path that such sudden wealth can put him on. I need to be certain that he won't cave to temptations as I did. Besides, many of the children we picked don't fit neatly into one sin. Veruca is greed and envy. Mike is sloth and wrath."

"You will stand over them, a vengeful god, and pronounce judgement."

"That is the plan, yes. And then you can have me."

"What do you mean, Will?"

"Me, Hannibal. You can have me. I've resisted the madness you're cultivating in me for long enough. Charlie can have the factory to do with as he will, provided he passes the test. Then I'll leave this place. We'll go away together. You can have me. You can make a meal of me, if you wish."

Hannibal considered his offer, his inky black eyes reflecting nothing but pure amusement at Wonka's surrender.

"You have the potential to be my greatest work..." he mused.

"And this was mine," Wonka said about his factory. "But I've resisted the devil for too long. Now I'm just tired.

"You think I am the devil?"

"What else could you be?"

"And if you are wrong, Will?"

"Would it matter? I've already given you my surrender. You effectively own me. You have since the moment I walked into your office."

...

"Do you understand your mistake, Will?"

"I expect you understood it even from the beginning. You just didn't tell me because it would interfere with the experiment."

"You're correct. But you do understand it now?"

"It was a highly publicized contest," Wonka said. "I could never get away with it. Even if Mrs. Teevee hadn't escaped and made all that fuss, someone always would've come looking."

"Precisely."

"I did factor that in."

"Then why do it at all? Did it thrill you, playing with those odds?"

"No," he said. "I needed to raise the stakes."

"Why?"

"I promised myself to you, but I couldn't let myself go easy. The authorities are closing in. So we go now, expecting a manhunt, or you let them take me. You, my silent partner, have the opportunity to go out undetected and invisible to the law."

"You would allow me just to leave?"

"You're inside my head. You can survive separation. I cannot. You're a parasite that can easily find another host. I'm a host who has been brainwashed into thinking it's the parasite and can't live without you. The worst part is that I'm cogent enough to know that for certain, but it doesn't stop it from feeling true. I can't be free. I don't truly wish to be. Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"Why pick me? Surely you had other patients you could've chosen to defile."

"You intrigued me in many ways, but I must admit that I always had a thing for men named Will. I always want to see how strong theirs is and if I can bend it to mine."

"So am I staying or am I going?"

"Oh Will..." Hannibal said, placing a delicate hand upon the candymaker's cheek. He used his other hand to plunge a knife into his chest. "You're not going anywhere." He gripped Wonka's arms to keep him standing. "It was an intriguing offer when you made it, but I must admit you've been boring me for some time. You're not as much of a challenge as I'd hoped you'd be and your palate simply isn't refined enough to appreciate the kind of game I'd prefer to hunt." He guided Wonka to the floor and held him there as he gasped for breath. 

"I just want to be free," Wonka whispered, and Hannibal knew this was his way of begging for death. "Can I be free now?"

"The Candyman can," Wonka said gently. "If he truly wishes to be." 

He twisted the knife once more and Wonka went limp in his arms. Hannibal knew that the authorities would be arriving at any minute, so he couldn't stay. He arranged the scene to look like a suicide, then slipped out through one of the secret tunnels the Oompa Loompas used to do deliveries.

He almost regretted the fact that C.W. wasn't there to see how it all played out. Something told him that this was a scoop she would've died for. And, well, she had. Curiosity may not be a deadly sin, but he reasoned that society condemned the trait in women often enough that it very nearly made the cut. The poor thing had had a marvelous brain. He'd had them stuffed inside ravioli with a sun-dried tomato sauce. Willy Wonka may have been a disappointment in every way, but C.W. Scattergood had made some incredible pasta, and that, in his mind, made the whole trip worth it. 

He was bored with this small town life. He needed a bigger hunting ground. He was already salivating for his next potential meal. He was determined to make it a good one. Perhaps, with the right inspiration, Hannibal Lecter could make the world taste good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why did I write this? We will never know. Sometimes I baffle myself.
> 
> I hope you've enjoyed whatever this was lol. I started out intending it to be actually funny, but anyone who knows me knows that I can't resist making it dark. Once I started toying with the deadly sins, it was all downhill from there lol. I had a bad religious upbringing myself, so it keeps coming out in my work whether or not that's the original plan.
> 
> I've always seen Will Graham as a tragedy. A repressed baby gay who was manipulated by the first man to give him attention. It's a trajectory I've seen often in life. Women in my life have had similar religious upbringings that make them feel cut off from positive attention, so when they get that attention they don't know how to handle it. I find that's worse in a different way for closeted gays because we don't have any gay elders in these communities who can look out for us and tell us when there are red flags. Our parents might try to tell us that something's off about the guy, but we rationalize that it's just because they're homophobic so they wouldn't be happy no matter who we were with. I've seen women in straight relationships be manipulated into thinking that nobody else will ever love them, but it's different in the gay community because in small religious towns we can feel that there aren't options so we have to take what we get. This leaves us open to manipulation. And that's what I saw in Will Graham. So that's what I did here with Willy Wonka. Another closet case who got manipulated because he was shamed into the closet and didn't have a support system.
> 
> What was supposed to be a dark comedy turned into a morality play and a tragedy. What's more on brand for me than that?


End file.
